


Save Me, My Queen

by margaerytyrell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:03:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margaerytyrell/pseuds/margaerytyrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What began in a throne room between the most unhappy girl in King's Landing and the woman with the timing to save her blossomed beyond their control into something painful that could save them both. Birthday fic for Lucy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Me, My Queen

I.  
It is a throne room much unlike any she’s seen before, dressed in spikes and banners the color of the blood spilt to keep the walls standing. The throne itself is elevated to bring ease to the act of looking down at those who enter, like the king does to her now. His jaw is stern but he is intrigued. She has heard much of the little lion king and his unpredictable fancies and makes an effort to hold her breath and his gaze simultaneously.  
Some banter as easy as breathing and she steals him as quickly as she could steal the eyes of everyone, man and woman alike, back home. She certainly doesn’t expect her own gaze to be stolen in an instant.  
Red hair and an ill-fitting dress that covers a wolf in lion’s skin. Her eyes fall down to the floor of the ghastly room with pleasure that she hides as disappointment and she knows immediately that the girl is a Stark; King Baratheon’s betrothed until moments ago. The pain that ebbs on her skin is almost tangible enough to taste and her sadness is even stronger.  
Lessons in etiquette tell her not to give the girl her attention any longer; they’ll have time to speak of horrors and learn of kings later, but she pauses one more second to trace her features, the elevation of her hallowed cheekbones and the dark rings around her sunken, sad eyes.  
She has the beauty of a rose clipped by the claws of a lion, but no one knows how to nurture a flower better than a Tyrell, she thinks.  
It is a glance that is short but too long. She turns back to her king with a heavy, curious heart.

II.  
It is pointed and everything about the request drips with her effort to befriend the girl. Were she anyone else, she supposes that the Stark girl may have thought her invitation was insincere, but Margaery has skills in captivating that can beguile even the most aware.  
On top of that, she isn’t entirely insincere in her efforts.  
When Sansa arrives at the gardens that overlook the shores of King’s Landing, the sun hits her and she is suspended in one infinite moment of beauty. She is not nearly as sad as she was only weeks ago in the throne room and more radiant, too. Margaery pushes her lips to smile and she moves the girl to the garden.  
“You will love it as I do,” she hums, tracing a gentle hand down the smaller girl’s back. Sansa wears clothing that hides her and fights her, no doubt designed by those who wish to leash her and keep her restrained. At least she has come to free her stream of hair, she thinks.  
She can save her, she thinks. She’s a key and she’s a girl. Margaery frowns slightly, just a twitch of her lips. Never has she wanted to save someone and the thought is… unsettling. Her hand lingers at the small of her back as they walk and her mind wanders from conversation of politics and from flowers and men to the fate of girl who’s had too much pain for any one person to bear.  
There is power in destroying and power in saving.  
She continues walking, nodding emptily.

III.  
It is stolen and hardly safe. Rushed. Quick. Heated. And in a fleeting moment, it is gone. She slips only a little when she kisses Sansa’s rose-colored lips, and the atmosphere that presses in on them turns from casual friendship to an oppressive, stagnant heat that promises more.   
It is a peck on the lips that reveals Margaery Tyrell near completely.  
“You are too kind, Lady Margaery,” Sansa blushes, but there is panic in her eyes. “Surely in Highgarden, all ladies kiss each other.”  
Margaery smiles, slipping back into a facet similar to the cool, shifting fabric of her soft blue dress. She brushes hair over her shoulders and straightens her stance, adopting the face of a girl who is not caught off guard and whose heart is not racing.  
“Of course, sweet girl,” she smiles. “It is how we greet our sisters, and I wish I could have been your sister.”  
Sansa smiles uneasily, stirred visibly by the events. Of course she believes her sister full of grace and coolness, but she is unsure, clearly, of how much she trusts her own heart. It gives Margaery hope and it gives her fear.  
How could she confuse and torment her sister like this?  
Most importantly, how could she give herself over to a childish longing? How could she set fire to the only thing she’d ever worked for?  
Margaery quickly pushes fingers through Sansa’s curls and resigns herself to get rid of the girl.

IV.  
The city lays burned, sieged, killed and forgotten. Fire bursts up from tapestries that are generations in age. Lannisters and Tyrells and bannermen of the once great House Stark lay strewn about the throne room, equal in death, and Margaery eases into the shape of the Iron Throne. It is flat and cold, jagged with the points of swords and daggers and steeled against the fire and blood and carnage.  
It is something like herself, she thinks. It is her steel thorns and she will be the last to sit upon it. Kings of all ages and blood lay dead in mud and grime and the men of the north have rallied behind the heir of Winterfell to burn down the last place of their pain.  
She waits for them to burst inside.  
When the redheaded girl turned woman enters with a flock of her bannermen behind her, Margaery stands and makes her way down the blood-slicked steps, sure not to fall. She catches Sansa Stark’s eyes and holds her there for a moment, searching for her salvation.  
“King’s Landing is taken,” a man shouts. “What do we do with the queen?”  
She approaches the girl and smiles only slightly, allowing herself to kneel before the new queen. She searches for words to appease the burly and raging men of the north, but finds none. It is only Sansa that she can reason with as battle still rages on outside.  
“It is the duty…” she begins slowly, calculating, “… of a queen to take the life of her enemy’s beloved, Lady Sansa”  
Her eyes trace up and find a semblance of friendship in the Stark girl’s eyes. She remembers this room when she first saw the girl. It was ornate and tidy, lavishly decorated and joyous, but it was little Sansa Stark that was powerless. She could laugh at how they’ve both changed. Instead, she continues to speak.  
“Or is it your turn to save me, my Queen?”


End file.
